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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23564497">Far Away (From Where I Belong)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humblefun/pseuds/Humblefun'>Humblefun</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, Teen Titans (Animated Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of the Apprentice fiasco, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Majority of it is implied, Shooting Guns, Trauma, but not graphically described</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:02:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,887</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23564497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humblefun/pseuds/Humblefun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always darkest before the dawn.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson &amp; Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>116</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Coming Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello and welcome to one of the Apprentice AU's I've been wanting to write for literal years. Well, really it's the aftermath of the Apprentice fiasco, set in the same universe as 'Taking a Break,' but technically 'Taking a Break' is an AU of this. Anyway, don't expect a regular update schedule, but I am going to be working on this as often as possible.</p><p>I hope everyone is doing well and is safe. Thank you so much to my beta <a href="https://hobbitsetal.tumblr.com">Hobbit</a> over on Tumblr. You're wonderful and the best!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The rain has soaked through every inch of Dick’s ill fitting clothes. His sneakers squelch with every step he takes. His hair is plastered to his head. Lightning illuminates the sky and he can just make out the outline of the Manor. He forces himself on unsteady legs to walk faster. As the fleeting light fades the darkness settles around him, but he knows this place like he knows how to breathe and he stops walking before he can trip the alarm. </p><p>He stands outside the gate and considers. His body is wracked with shivers, with aches and pains he can’t begin to acknowledge when he’s so close. He just needs to last a little bit longer. He holds his throbbing wrist close to his body as he scales the short wall attached to the gate. It’s difficult with only one good hand and despite his best efforts he does jostle the other, but he grits his teeth against the pain and keeps going. He drops down to the other side and starts up the winding drive. </p><p>He all but collapses when he reaches the doorway, curling his numb fingers into a fist and using the last of his energy to pound on the door. He can’t hear anything over the thunder and the torrents still pouring down; he doubts anyone inside can either. His vision goes blurry and he doesn’t know if it’s from the rain or tears. He’s so, so tired. He just needs someone to hear, but all he can manage is a weak attempt at a second knock. His hand falls back to his side and, with exhaustion finally taking hold,  he drops his head against the door with a light thud.</p><p>It opens.</p><p>“Dick?”</p><p>The sound of Bruce’s voice is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. His lips turn up in a faint smile.</p><p>Everything goes black.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em> “You’re taking this with you tonight.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Slade holds out a pistol to Dick, as easily as if he were handing him a bag of chips. He’s not even looking in Dick’s direction, instead going over the blueprints for the building Dick is about to break into. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dick hesitates. He’s never needed a gun before. He doesn’t know why he needs one now and wondering what Slade wants him to take it for only makes him queasy. Still, he reaches out and slides it into the holster on his hip, knowing that waiting too long will only make things worse.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Slade turns to him and Dick stands up straighter under his scrutinizing gaze. </em>
</p><p><em> “No arguing?” he asks </em>.</p><p>
  <em> Dick doesn’t imagine the satisfaction in his tone. </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>He can’t sleep. </p><p>Hasn’t been able to for a week. </p><p>He thinks it has something to do with the suffocating silence of his room, the lack of any white noise whatsoever. Dick stares up at his ceiling and wonders when he became so reliant on the creaks and groans of drafty warehouses to lull him into unconsciousness. He wants to sleep, wants to drift off and stop thinking for a little while. But he can’t. With a huff, he turns on his side and pulls the blankets over his head. </p><p>It would take something truly awful to make him admit that he’s afraid of the darkness of his own room. That staring at the shadows for too long makes him paranoid and twists his stomach into knots. Even now, under the covers, he squeezes his eyes shut against the fear that tiptoes up his throat. But he forces himself to stay. He can handle this. He’s a big boy; he can go to sleep by himself in a dark room. Can’t he?</p><p>It’s not like Slade had given him a nightlight. It’d been dark when he’d slept there too, but this was different. He can’t shake off the feeling that he isn’t safe, that any second the too-still air of the room can be broken and he’ll be right back where he started. That Slade will come to the manor and break through the security and - He exhales forcefully. That can’t happen. It <em> won’t </em> happen. Still, the thought is enough to make him push the blankets down and stand up from his bed. After all, he managed to get in with a fractured wrist. </p><p>He walks out of the room and down the hall to the stairs. The rest of the house isn’t nearly as quiet and moonlight shines in through the windows, but he doesn’t linger. When he gets to the first floor, he makes a beeline for the clock. He sets the hands and steps into the elevator.</p><p>He sags against the wall and closes his eyes. The ride seems to last forever, but after a few seconds, he’s stepping out into the Cave. The floor is cold against his feet and he shivers a little as he follows the glow of the Computer to where Bruce is sitting.</p><p>He feels calmer. There’s constant noise - the bats chittering, the hum of the computers, Bruce’s typing. The tension drains from his shoulders and he comes up to stand beside Bruce. </p><p>“Hi,” he says. </p><p>Bruce doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. He turns the chair a little and looks at Dick with a surprised expression.</p><p>“Hey-”</p><p>Dick flushes in embarrassment and hunches his shoulders. Add footing light enough to surprise Batman to the list of things he could do now.  “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to-”</p><p>“No, no, it’s fine.” Bruce waves his apology off. “Are you okay?”</p><p>There’s not a true answer that wouldn’t make Bruce overly concerned, so he just shrugs.</p><p>“Can’t sleep. You know the norm.” </p><p>Bruce hums in agreement. “Yes, I know the norm.” He looks down at the cast on Dick’s wrist. “Any pain?” he asks.</p><p>Dick looks down and shrugs again. “Also the norm. Could’ve been worse.” </p><p>Another hum. This time a little strained. Dick bites the inside of his cheek and fidgets. He hates the way Bruce looks at him when something even vaguely related to his apprenticeship comes up, like he’s broken. He forces out an exhale. </p><p>“I’m fine, Bruce.”</p><p>It comes out with more bite than he intends it to and Bruce’s eyes narrow just slightly. It’s in that moment that Dick realizes just how exhausted he is. He doesn’t want to get into an argument. Not right now. For a second that seems to be the exact route they're going down, but then Bruce nods and turns his attention back to the computer.</p><p>Dick thinks that’s the end of it and for a few minutes he stands there and watches Bruce work. But then the chair is turning again and Bruce’s concerned gaze is on him once more. He bristles.</p><p>“Bruce-”</p><p>“I just think,” Bruce says, cutting him off, “that you’re not really fine.”</p><p>Anger flares white and hot over the thrum of fear that’s been going through him all night. His nostrils flare. </p><p>“I don’t need your opinion. I took care of myself for a whole year before everything went to hell!”</p><p>There’s a part of him that thinks that maybe he shouldn’t be so indignant. That he needs to calm down. It’s not like Bruce is wrong. He’s clearly just trying to be nice, trying to <em> care. </em>And then -</p><p>Bruce scoffs. </p><p>“You call subsisting on pizza and going to bed at 3 a.m. every night taking care of yourself?”</p><p>The sound tunnels out of his ears. He goes perfectly still. </p><p>“Were you <em> watching me </em> ?” His voice rises a whole octave as everything starts crashing back in. His hands start to shake. “What is <em> wrong </em> with you? What gives you the right to just surveil - you’re just like him!”</p><p>He regrets the words the <em> second </em> they leave his mouth because he knows they're not true and he hates the stricken look they put on Bruce’s face. </p><p>Bruce reaches out to him, but he snatches himself back. </p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p>His voice wavers.</p><p>“Dick-” </p><p>Bruce sounds broken.</p><p>“Why did you think that was okay? How could you <em> ever </em> think that was okay?” He’s practically shrill and all he can think about is how Slade knew everything he did down to the breath.</p><p>And Bruce had been doing the same thing.</p><p>Bruce is in front of him before he can realize that he even stood up out of the chair. Dick flinches, and Bruce nearly does the same, but then his hands are on Dick’s face and he’s holding him still. His hands are warm and calloused against Dick’s skin and Dick just stands there, his heart racing in his chest.</p><p>“Breathe,” Bruce instructs and he listens even as he mutters out ‘it’s not okay’ between each exhale. </p><p>They stand like that for a long time. Dick doesn't want to be any closer, but he can’t fathom pulling away either.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Pain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Well, Dick is still going through it.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm having to so much fun writing this, you guys have no idea. Once again a huge thank you to my beta <a href="https://hobbitsetal.tumblr.com/">Hobbit</a>! You're great and I appreciate you helping me not second guess myself. 💖 Also a huge thank you to everyone who likes the story. I hope everyone's staying safe!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s difficult to ignore Bruce when they’re sitting across from each other at the table, but he focuses on his food and studiously avoids Bruce’s eyes. After last night, even Alfred’s food doesn’t spark any appetite. He bounces his leg under the table and bites the inside of his cheek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not like he hadn’t suspected. The security system at the Tower is the same base code as the Batcave, with Cy’s added flourishes. It wouldn’t have been hard for Bruce to get through if he was really trying. But for him to just cut in whenever he wanted? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glances up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How often?” he asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce pauses mid-bite. He closes his mouth, sets down his fork, and clears his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not often..”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dick narrows his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How often, Bruce?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause and he inhales slowly through his nose as he fights against the pressure behind his eyes. Bruce looks at him and Dick tries not to be sympathetic to the regret there. He’s not about to feel sorry when Bruce is the one in the wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Once a month at the most. And I didn’t have cameras in there. I just-“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hacked into our feeds?” Dick asks. “Do you know how crazy that sounds? Did you suddenly forget how to use a phone?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He levels a glare, but receives no response. Bruce locks his jaw and averts his gaze. Disappointment settles deep in Dick’s stomach. His vision grows blurry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You let me leave.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce turns back to him. “No, I didn’t, you snuck out in the middle of the night without saying a thing. You weren’t even fully healed yet. And yo-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was fourteen, Bruce! And you might think that’s normal, but it’s not! I was fourteen years old and hurt and scared and you just let me go. It wasn’t hard for you to find out that I’d left, but you didn’t come after me. You let me go cross country, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>funded</span>
  </em>
  <span> me, and then you have the nerve to try and ‘check in on me’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a weighted silence and he fidgets, well aware that he wouldn’t have dared to raise his voice like this a week ago. He fights the urge to make himself small, reminds himself that he has a right to be angry, that this is Bruce and that the same rules don’t apply anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was wrong.” The words sound strained and Dick can’t tell if it’s because Bruce is regretful or because he’s allergic to apologizing. Either way it isn’t enough. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pushes his plate away and stands up from the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I need to be able to trust you.”</span>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He rounds the corner as a bullet embeds itself into the concrete where he’d just been standing. More rounds fire off behind him, but he just keeps running and hopes they have bad aim. His com crackles to life in his ear. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I remember handing you a gun.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He ducks behind a pillar and tries to catch his breath.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I don’t exactly have time to aim,” he mutters.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Watch your tone.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He doesn’t reply. The gunfire starts up again. The stairwell is just ahead of him. He runs.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s almost there when something solid slams into him and takes him to the ground. He twists around in the hold and elbows the security guard in the side of the head. He scrambles up, but the other two have caught up to him now. He puts his hands up and takes a step backward. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t move!” one of them shouts.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dick complies. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Robin.” Slade’s tone is dangerous. The gun hangs heavy on his hip. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The security guards step closer. Dick forces himself to breathe and consider. One of them is older, and his gun wavers slightly in his hands. If Dick has to charge, he has a better chance of going for that one. But there’s a window a short way behind him. He just needs to get to it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“The gun, Robin.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He ignores Slade. The younger guard fishes out a pair of handcuffs and his eyes drop from Dick for a split second as he steps over the third guard, who’s still unconscious on the floor. Dick takes the opening. He pivots on his heel and sprints for the window. They both shout and a gun goes off. The shot goes wide and hits the glass instead. It shatters. Dick brings his arms in front of his face and jumps through.</span>
  </em>
</p><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Dick is starting to realize that trying to rearrange his room with a broken wrist wasn’t the brightest idea. He’d wanted to push his bed against the wall, figured it would give him a better vantage point of the whole room, make him a little less paranoid. But then the issue of moving the dresser and the TV on top of it out of the way had arisen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d managed to unplug the TV cords just fine. He couldn’t lift the TV off the dresser so when he’d leaned his shoulder against the side of the dresser to push, he’d done so slowly. It worked fine for about two feet, until he’d realized he was scratching a line into the floor and stopped short. The sudden shift had set the TV wobbling and then tipping over with a loud crash. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now Dick stands frozen, staring at the mess in front of him. He can hear Bruce running up the hallway and all he can think about is that he’s going to be in trouble. His instincts are  screaming at him to run, but he can’t. He just stands there and flinches as Bruce barges into the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce pauses in the doorway and looks at him, then at the TV, and then back at him. Dick tenses and Bruce’s body language softens. He telegraphs his movements, making sure his hands are visible as he steps further into the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you hurt?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dick blinks and then shakes his head after a short pause. That’s not what he’d been expecting. Bruce looks at him for a moment and then nods, accepting the answer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it okay if I come over there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” he murmurs. His voice is shaky. “I didn’t mean to-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine. You know you’re not in trouble, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yes. He knows, but he'd convinced himself otherwise, thought about Slade’s way of dealing with mistakes instead of Bruce’s, got scared. He swallows and narrows his eyes at the soft tone, looking for some emotion to focus on other than the growing panic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sixteen, not six. You don’t have to talk to me like that,” he snaps.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s Bruce’s turn to go still. He looks at Dick like he’s just said something absurd. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re fifteen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dick balls his hands into fists. “I think I know how old I am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce shakes his head. “No, no. You don’t turn sixteen until-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bruce it’s May, I turned 16 two months ago.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Rain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>We get to see Bruce's perspective of things.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Guys, I'm so glad you like the fic! I'm having such a great time writing it. We go back to Dick's perspective in chapter 4 (which I'm currently working on), but I wanted to start working Bruce's in. Thank you again to my beta <a href="https://hobbitsetal.tumblr.com/">Hobbit</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Bruce, it’s May, I turned 16 two months ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not like Bruce doesn’t know what month it is, but he’d been so busy looking for Dick that he hadn’t even registered March 20th passing by. He’s not sure why it bothers him so much. Maybe it’s the fact that Dick spent a time that was supposed to be special alone and scared. Maybe it’s the resigned tone of Dick’s voice. Maybe it’s because, if this hadn’t happened, Bruce would have missed it anyway. He pushes the thought aside and turns his attention back to the broken television between them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, right. I--stay right there, okay? I’m going to clean this up.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine, Bruce. I don’t need you to handle anything. I’ve got it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce bites his tongue. He clearly doesn’t, but there’s also a note of desperation in his tone that makes Bruce’s heart twist. So he takes a deep breath and tries again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dick, just stay there.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There must be a little too much command in his tone because Dick bristles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or </span>
  <em>
    <span>what, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bruce?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His chin juts out defiantly, but his eyes are wide and glassy and scared. Bruce hates it, wishes he could take away everything that put that look on his boy’s face. He breathes in through his nose and keeps his features relaxed. It occurs to him that ‘or you might get hurt’ isn’t a good way to reply, even if he’s referring to the shards of the TV screen on the floor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or nothing, Dick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But that doesn’t do anything to relax him. He’s still tense, standing with his shoulders hunched like a cornered animal. Like he’s waiting for Bruce to attack. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t stop to consider the implications of that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets the rigidness fall from his own body and makes sure he isn’t looming. Dick watches every movement. Bruce has always gotten on Dick about paying more attention during patrol. But in the week or so that he’s been home, he’s been almost hyper-vigilant. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even now Dick continues to stare. Bruce can tell he’s trying to hold onto the anger, trying to hold himself together. But his bottom lip is trembling and his chest rises and falls in quick bursts that indicate his plan is failing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dickie,” Bruce says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His voice is soft and quiet. Dick shakes his head as his face crumples. He draws into himself farther and backs away, clutching the sleeves of his shirt for comfort. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dick, it’s just a TV. You made a mistake; it’s okay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mistakes get you killed.” Dick’s eyes are accusing. “You said that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce remembers. It’d been a bad patrol and Dick had nearly gotten hurt because of some slip-up. He grimaces. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was talking about patrol, not rearranging your room.” He tries to put on half a smile as he says it, but he knows it falls flat. He tries not to sigh. “Can I come over there now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dick hesitates, but then he nods. Bruce gingerly steps over the TV and, after a moment of consideration, kneels in front of him. He puts his hands on Dick’s arms without thinking and Dick inhales sharply, tensing up further than what Bruce thought was possible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s me, you’re okay.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tries not to dwell on the fact that after their conversation at breakfast that ‘it’s me’ might not be as comforting as it used to be. He squeezes Dick’s arms gently, trying to ground him a little. Dick’s eyes bore into his and Bruce doesn’t remember seeing him this lost since he was eight years old. It makes his breath catch with sadness. It makes him feel like a failure. It makes him determined to fix this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No one in this house will </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>hurt you. Do you understand me?” He keeps his voice firm, but doesn’t command, doesn’t make it a threat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dick nods, but the look doesn’t go away, the tension doesn’t fade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you believe me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dick shakes his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” His voice shakes when he says it and Bruce’s shoulders sag a little.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he murmurs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They stay there, silent, for a few minutes. Bruce ignores the ache in his bad knee. Dick finally starts to breathe a little bit slower. The panic, however, still lingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m going to get up, and I’m going to get a broom and clean up, and you can sit on your bed okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, there’s no fighting back. Dick nods and pulls away to sit on his bed. Bruce tries not to worry about the fact that his stare has gone vacant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leaves the room, standing with a bit of difficulty, and goes down to the supply closet. He grabs the broom, but before he walks back he leans against the wall and closes his eyes. He doesn’t remember a time when he was more tired. What he does remember is how easy it used to be to comfort Dick. How nightmares and worries and hurts could be soothed away with a hug and some of Alfred’s hot chocolate. How, when Dick had a problem, they’d solved it together. How he used to know what to do. How he hadn’t felt so helpless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s nothing he wants more than to help, but he knows it’s not going to be simple. Not like before, when he could draw on his own loss to help Dick cope. Now there’s a new set of rules to navigate and no comparable experiences to fall back on. He inhales slowly and opens his eyes. He’s learned how to be there for Dick before. He’ll do it again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he gets back to the room, Dick is staring at his lap. Judging by the way his body sags, he’s finally calmed. He doesn’t look up when Bruce comes in, only shifts a little when Bruce grabs the TV off the floor and brings it out into the hall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cleaning up is fast after that. When he looks up from throwing the pieces of the TV screen away,Dick is looking at him again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m a mess.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce walks over and sits on the bed next to him. Dick leans into his side, and Bruce realizes just how exhausted he must be. He puts an arm around Dick’s shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re hurting,” Bruce corrects quietly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Will I get better?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce closes his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Belong</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dick comes to some conclusions.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Guys, this is my favorite chapter yet. I'm so proud of it!! I also have to thank my beta <a href="https://hobbitsetal.tumblr.com/">Hobbit</a>. You are the best and you truly elevate this fic &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>At some point, Dick had given into the exhaustion clouding his mind and fallen asleep against Bruce’s side. But a few hours later, he’s awake again. Bruce isn’t in the room anymore and the silence puts him on edge. He keeps his eyes closed against the darkness of his room and thinks. Something about the conviction Bruce had answered him with earlier makes guilt settle heavy on his chest. He doesn't deserve the faith Bruce has in his ability to get better. Not when he got himself into the mess in the first place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He opens his eyes and sits up. The curtains are closed and no moonlight shines in. He runs a shaking hand over his face.  As much as he’d like to believe Bruce, he can’t. There’s something so disgustingly pathetic about not being able to move his furniture without panicking, of not being able to sit in the dark of his own room. How is he supposed to start functioning like a normal human being again, when he can’t even handle the simplest of tasks?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns on the lamp on his bedside table. The light only makes him feel marginally better. It’s still too quiet. He grabs the remote and is about to hit the power button when he remembers he broke the TV. He looks over at the dresser and the sizable scratch on the floor and feels his cheeks heat with embarrassment. How stupid had he looked earlier? Ready to cry? Cowering away from Bruce? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slade wouldn’t have tolerated it. He would have gotten in his face and taunted, would have been angry. Dick shakes his head and tries not to think about it. It’s hard, though, not to acknowledge the mixture of anger and fear and shame that’s currently vying for his attention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He leaves his room and walks down the stairs with the intent to go to one of the living rooms to watch TV. With his wrist in the cast for another three weeks and then PT after that, the gym or the training equipment in the Cave isn’t an option. It only adds to his restless energy. He wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>move</span>
  </em>
  <span>, wants to work the feelings away. But unless he wants permanent damage to his body, he has to stay grounded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a sliver of light coming out from under Bruce’s study door when Dick gets to the second floor. He stops and stares at it. He thinks about Bruce’s words earlier, promising that he was safe at the manor, that he wouldn’t be hurt at the manor. It’s not that he thinks Bruce would-He drops the train of thought. Bruce is not Slade, but the fact of the matter is that he doesn’t know where he stands with him anymore. He can go from angry to wanting his company to avoiding him in seconds and sometimes, the emotional whiplash is more than he can handle on top of everything else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wants things to go back to the way they were before. Of course he does. He misses when it was just him and Bruce against the world. When he’d trusted what Bruce said to him, when he’d believed in the promises Bruce made. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After another moment’s hesitation, he continues down to the first floor.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s still picking pieces of glass out of his hair when he gets back to the warehouse.  His stomach has twisted itself into knots. He knows he’s in trouble. He walks in and makes his way to where Slade has set up a small computer bank. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Slade isn’t facing him. Two months ago Dick would have taken it as an opportunity to attack. Weeks of losing and pissing Slade off has taught him otherwise. He stands straight in the center of the room. He holds his hands still at his sides and watches Slade. There’s no rigidity in his shoulders, his typing is unhurried, and he still hasn’t acknowledged Dick at all. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>The knots in his stomach pull tighter. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Slade is more brutal when he’s calm. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I got -”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Did I ask you to talk?” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Cold. Short. Smooth. Dick resists the urge to run. Instead, he shakes his head and shuts his mouth. Slade finally turns to look at him. Dick can’t read his expression, even with the mask off. He forces himself to stay still and hopes he doesn’t look as terrified as he feels.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Slade paces in front of him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What were you thinking?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s a dangerous gleam to Slade’s eye. Dick scrambles to come up with an answer.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I got the flash drive-”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“That’s not what I’m asking you. What. Were. You. Thinking?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He shakes his head. “I was getting shot at, I was trying to get away, I just-”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Slade pulls out his gun. “What is this?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dick blinks, furrows his brow. Slade sighs. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“A little slow on the uptake today, aren’t we?” He clicks the safety off and shoots it above Dick’s head. The bullet hits one of the lights a few feet away and shatters it. The sound is deafening. Dick flinches and slaps his hands over his ears.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What is it, Robin?” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“A gun, it’s-it’s a gun.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Smart boy,” Slade says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He puts his gun away. “And what does it do?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s hard for him to breathe. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest. He screwed up. He screwed up.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“It shoots.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He hates the way his voice shakes. Slade hums in approval at the answer, but then he fixes him with a look that makes Dick’s stomach drop to his toes.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“So, if you know, then why didn’t you use yours?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dick doesn’t know what to say. He can only stare at Slade while his ears ring. Slade clicks his tongue. He raises his hand and Dick tenses up. But there’s no impact. Instead, Slade pulls out the remote.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I think it’s time to stop taking it easy on you. Pick one.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Even scared out of his mind Dick knows what Slade means. “No, no, no, Slade-I, I’m sorry. I’ll do better! I’ll do whatever you -”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Slade grips his face tightly. “You should already be doing whatever I want. That is the point. We’ve been at this for six months now, Robin. Don’t act stupid.” He lets go. “Now pick. I’ll give you to the count of three.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, please -”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“One.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Slade, please! I’m sorry, I did -”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Two.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, no, stop. Please, leave them out of -”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Three. Fine, I’ll pick for you.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He turns around and walks back to the computers. He pulls up a camera feed of Titan’s Tower. Dick shakes his head. He can’t let this happen. He has to - </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He pulls the gun out from its holster. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I said stop.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>The snaps and pops of the food in the pan Alfred is cooking are a welcome sound to his sleep deprived brain. He takes a seat at the counter, where there are two spots set, and yawns, resting his chin in his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Another late night?” Alfred asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dick nods. “Can’t sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alfred hums. It looks like most of his focus is on breakfast, but Dick knows he’s being observed in Alfred’s peripheral. It’s not judging or pitying the way it sometimes is from Bruce. Dick offers a sheepish smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m trying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s quite all right, Master Dick. The hope of anyone in this house having a proper sleep schedule is a fleeting one.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiles gently and Dick’s own smile grows genuine. Alfred returns his attention to the stove and Dick just watches for a little while. Eventually, Alfred finishes cooking and plates the food for Dick. With a ‘thank you,’ Dick starts to eat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a couple of bites he looks back up. “Hey, Alfred?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alfred inclines his head in acknowledgement. Dick considers his words and drums the fingers of his good hand on the counter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Could you... please tell Bruce to stop looking at me like I’m a piece of the holiday china?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alfred looks at him. Before he can answer, Dick keeps talking. “I’m not broken and I’m not going to break. He listens to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Master Dick, I can assure you that he listens to no one…” He pauses and meets Dick’s eyes. “But I will try my best.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dick offers up a grateful half-smile, just as Bruce walks into the room. He sits down next to Dick, sets down the stack of paperwork he has in his hands, thanks Alfred, and starts to eat. Alfred nods in acknowledgement before leaving and Dick eyes the papers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Forms for Lucius?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Among other things,” Bruce says, grabbing the first page and looking it over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dick hums and goes back to his food. He wonders why Bruce still has so much work when he was clearly home last night to get through some of it. There’s always the chance Bruce left the light on when going down to the cave, but Dick has a feeling that isn’t the case. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he thinks about it, the last time he saw Bruce in the cave was their argument and Bruce hadn’t even been in costume. He bites the inside of his cheek and looks at Bruce. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you skipping patrol?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce’s face pinches slightly and Dick narrows his eyes. “Bruce.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just since you came home. Barbara has been keeping an eye on things for me. There’s been no emergencies and I wanted to be here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dick notices the pause before Bruce finishes his sentence, realizes Bruce was probably ready to say: “I needed to be here,” before thinking better of it. He locks his jaw and then looks away. He doesn’t need a babysitter, but he can’t deny that, yeah, having Bruce be home is a lot more comforting than him being out on patrol if something were to happen. But that only makes him feel selfish. Babs is more than competent, but Dick doesn’t like being what’s keeping Batman from the city that needs him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t say anything in reply. He knows anything he tries to bring up will just get refuted and then he’ll get angry and then they’ll be arguing again. He’s far too tired for arguments. Bruce doesn’t try to continue the conversation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows that Bruce is stubborn, that he wouldn’t be staying home if he didn’t want to, but it doesn’t do anything to stop his guilt. He thinks back to being seven years old, face flushed red with fever and a cold wash rag being placed on his head by his mother. He remembers feeling awful, not from whatever he’d caught, but because his parents hadn’t performed that night. They’d stayed home to watch over him. After that, he’d always tried to hide when he was sick. He hadn’t wanted to be the reason that they missed out and, it seems, some things never change.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He contemplates trying to act fine and then dismisses the thought. There’s no way. His previous attempts at normalcy not motivated by deception hadn’t worked out in his favor and he may be able to sneak around without notice, but Bruce has always seen right through whatever poker face he puts up. If only Slade had taught him how to be a better liar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If only Slade hadn’t broken down his sense of self so thoroughly. Then maybe he wouldn’t have to consider acting. Maybe he would actually be okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he wasn’t okay and Slade had taken and twisted him until he was something he didn’t even recognize, until his stubbornness and need to keep his friends alive was the only thing holding him together. Now that he’s not there and his friends are safe, now that the stubborn part of him is wearing thin from exhaustion? Well, holding himself together is a tall order. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not that he doesn’t want to be better. He does. There’s just something humiliating about admitting that he needs the same type of carefulness Bruce uses with the scared kids he encounters in the field. He’s supposed to be Robin. The Boy Wonder. The better half of the dynamic duo. He’s supposed to be bigger than this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pushes his plate away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s always been a sort of warmth he gets when he thinks about being Robin. A comfort knowing that he helps people and that, in some small way, he’s keeping his parents’ legacy alive. But lately, that warm feeling has turned sickly and the title of Robin feels tainted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Robin that helps people out of burning buildings doesn’t steal codes that dismantle a company’s infrastructure. The Robin that stops a mugger from attacking a young couple doesn’t steal incriminating evidence from the police to keep a high end criminal out of jail. The Robin that Batman trained doesn’t steal gun parts that are later used to murder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Robin that worked for Slade does. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dick </span>
  </em>
  <span>does. Did. It doesn’t matter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one can be blamed for the tarnish on Robin’s reputation besides himself. He screwed it up. He made his bed and he knows deep down that, just like he doesn’t deserve the kindness and care Bruce is offering, he doesn’t deserve to call himself Robin.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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